We try to avoid keeping The Sun’s content inbred; it’s often seen as both self-promotional and perhaps a conflict of interest.

That said, there are times when you have to make allowances; when a former editor is exemplary and interesting enough, that, though he or she may claim that “they majored in the Sun,” everything else he or she has done far surpasses it.

Howard Rodman ’71 is one such dude. He’d be the first to claim that he’s not quite the “Hollywood Insider,” and he may be right: much of his work, though celebrated, happens to be “unproducable or unpublishable” — a common trope of his.

So Dane Cook tells me that “Any guy here, more than sex — if they had the choice between sex and this one other thing — any guy here would rather be part of a heist.” To be honest, I would too: there’s something that’s oh-so-thrilling about the vault. It’s that moment of awe when the composite-steel doors swing open and the titanium bolts unlock. You know: it’s the sexiness of precision machines. At this moment, even veteran thieves (imagine: George Clooney as Danny Ocean) stand for a second in silence in front of their prize.

In our recently-released-from-the-hell-that-was-the-writers’-strike reality television dependent society, when we think fashion or models, we think Tyra and Heidi. However, as you know if you’ve ever been to any CDL events this year or in years past: Project Runway, CDL is not.

I realize this immediately upon entering the CDL studio in MVR. The studios and work rooms are tucked away in a far-off corner of the building I would never have found had I not been led there by some of the friendly members of the CDL board. I am greeted by Meg Cross ’08, president and Kirby Fowle ’08, vice president of publicity, who show me around the room.

In honor of Women’s Awareness Month, a pair of intrepid female reporters at The Sun chose to take on two big topics in one bra: cleavage.

Spotted in Libe Café: a blonde be-Ugg-ed sister cleaving big time, distracting the docile, all-business evening coffee crowd from, well, everything. On such a sloshy, wintry Tuesday, this girl’s chest was ostensibly on its milky way to exposing a bit of her caramel-colored niblets — and even in a sea of turtleneck-clad breasts that would make Joshua Hartnett proud, all eyes seemed to be fixated on the single plunging neckline.